


Only Human

by SinningVirtue



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cas' struggle with emotions, Emotional Supression, Hurt Dean, self abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-04
Updated: 2012-09-04
Packaged: 2017-11-13 13:59:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/504260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SinningVirtue/pseuds/SinningVirtue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel knows his charge, can feel all the pain Dean experiences every moment, from a cut across his inner arm to the soul-deep agony that memories of Hell inflict upon him. The Angel needs to understand why the human hurts so much, he wants it to stop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only Human

Castiel could feel when his charge was in pain. It was something he was unaccustomed to, this onslaught of sensation crashing down on him at any given point, when Dean Winchester was feeling it. He could feel a sting on his inner elbow, where no one would see, a little searing pain that made him seize up, go still, his back snapping into such straightness he remembered lines of warrior angels about to go to war. He hadn’t thought angels could feel at all, but he was. He’d thought he was done with straight backs and reminders of his garrison, now that he was falling, air slipping past his skin like a burning caress. He knew he would crash eventually. He would hit the Earth with a resounding, bone-snapping crack that would leave a fissure, the ground splitting open until he was swallowed by Hell itself. And people wondered why they were afraid of falling.

 

It wasn’t the first time he’d felt it, that little sting on the inside of his arm. It could have been anything; Dean was hurt all the time. Often, Castiel would find himself on the edge of a road, staring vacantly at nothing, and feel as though he’d been kicked in the stomach. It was easier to manage when he had his Grace; he could smother the pain, keep it sharp enough to know if Dean needed him, but dull enough to distance himself. He found that pain an uncomfortable experience, not something he enjoyed.

 

He knew Dean must hate it even more, but his charge never showed it. Not since Castiel had dragged him from the confines of Hell, kicking and screaming. Those screams still haunted Castiel, when he sat alone in the dark, unable to find comfort in sleep like people did. The screams would find their way into Castiel’s mind and he would remember the agony embodied in the shattered soul that was Dean Winchester. He wondered how he had managed to thrive, his soul shining so brightly in the webbed darkness of Hell, evil overlapping evil. He remembered the way Dean had resisted, more demon than human then, but Castiel had pulled, pulled until all other angels gave up the fight and he grew tired, wings shredded by clawing demons. He’d known enough of pain, then.

 

But his charge was always in pain, most of it a pain Castiel could never fathom, one so deep inside it made the Angel feel like he the soul he didn’t have was splitting down the center, an agony unlike anything he’d ever felt. He’d stand close to Dean, as if the nearness could help the Angel understand the depth of the Righteous Man’s pain. His body would be inches from Dean Winchester’s, but Castiel would still leave with questions, because there were things he couldn’t understand. He couldn’t fathom how a soul could ache, how Dean could hurt so much inside, where Castiel couldn’t reach him. For all the power his kin possessed, emotions made him feel weak, like a young child learning to walk, halting and slow. They made him feel as if he was missing something, unable to fully realize the distant stirrings of sensation angels weren’t supposed to have. He wondered if they aided in his fall.

 

Castiel rubbed at his inner arm, the movement a kind of human twitch he was acquiring, always in the epicenter of pain. After a flare, as he had nothing else to call it, that pain on the inside would quiet, would slow, and he would be comfortably numb. He would be left breathing deeply and wishing that the physical pain could always drown out this emotional turmoil, this hurricane of _feeling_ he was new to.  He wondered how Dean could deal with it, how he could shoulder the world like Atlas and still face each day, each carved out reminder of Hell, memories of a past better left forgotten, the burning ceiling of his childhood, the terrors in the shadows. Maybe it was a Winchester trait, something placed in their bloodstream by the Grace of God alone.

 

Maybe humans were more complex than angels gave them credit for. Castiel thought so, as he tried to understand the levels of pain in his head. They felt distant, the only way he knew they were Dean’s feelings, but crippling, tearing away at the fabric of his own being. He could feel Jimmy shrink away from them. Castiel realized this was human instinct, to hide from pain, and tried to do the same. It was worthless.

 

Just like trying to ignore his handprint, burned into Dean’s shoulder like a mark of ownership, a brand of holy fire, singed into the Righteous Man in the depths of Hell. Castiel wondered if thoughts of Hell always kept Dean up at night, always made that pain roll in his chest until the angel thought it must burst out of his chest and into the open, flinging self-loathing onto the world he’d been abandoned by.

 

Castiel wondered how Dean survived, when the pain was a gnawing, burning thing inside his chest or tearing slashes along his body, drawn red and bloody by enemies in the dark. He thought that he might never understand humanity, least of all Dean Winchester, whose selflessness was unsurpassed and whose self-loathing left the angel puzzled. His charge didn’t think he deserved to be saved, deserved to be raised from the pits of Hell or hell-on-earth, deserved to be healed when he was hurting. And he was always hurting.

 

It always seemed to come back to pain with Dean, but maybe that was because Castiel was still learning the concept.

 

“Dean?” He asked, suddenly standing in front of the green-eyed hunter, his charge, insides broken like a child’s toy too roughly handled. Dean was too roughly handled. His head snapped up, knife falling to the floor with a reverberating _clang_ that had the human hearing symphonies and the angel sounds of war and heartache.

 

The motel they were in was deteriorating around them, paper peeling from the walls, stains on the carpet, plastic chairs bending beneath the weight of duffel bags. Sam wasn’t in the room, and Castiel could see the quick scrawl of the younger brother’s handwriting on a note by the bedside table. He’d gone out, maybe to get something or to relax, the angel didn’t know.

 

His attention returned to Dean as he moved, slamming a hand down on his inner elbow, making it burn through Castiel until the angel could feel the beginnings of a wince rising in his vessel. His head tilted, blue eyes locked on Dean’s slim fingers which were trapping the blood in, Dean’s blood. Castiel had never liked to see Dean bleed, it was always too fast, blood rushing from his skin like it wanted to be free and Dean was always slow to stop it.

 

“What, Cas?” Dean asked harshly, the nickname dripping from his lips like they’d known each other for decades. Castiel wondered when his name had changed, when the title given to him by God was less appealing than a nickname created by a human. Castiel was changing, becoming Cas.

 

“What happened?” Castiel asked instead, eyes flicking up to meet green. The angel thought Dean’s eyes were brighter than normal, alive with something, a fire shining from his soul. Usually that inside pain suffocated the soul’s flame, made it a weak candle. Now it was a torch, tearing down the remains of self-hatred until there was tranquility.

 

“Accidently got myself,” Dean muttered by way of explanation, gesturing to the knife he’d obviously been cleaning. The angel wondered how often it happened, how often Dean made mistakes like that. Castiel had rarely known Dean to make mistakes.

 

“I would assume your expertise in the area makes you less susceptible to error,” Castiel said logically, watching Dean’s eyes as if he could read him. With the little Castiel knew about humanity, he knew the most about Dean. He understood every movement, every smirk, every twitch of his face, and most of his behaviors. The angel knew he only sharpened knives when he was upset, though upset would never be a word Dean would use to describe what he was feeling. And now there was nothing, just calm.

 

“Well, I’m only human,” Dean grunted, turning to face the wall, peeling his hand away from the cut. Castiel could feel the sting of cool air against his inner arm. The angel tried not to be captivated by the way Dean’s fingers looked, sticky with his own drying blood, rusty color on the edges. It reminded him of Dean in Hell, carving, always carving away to see the spill of blood against his skin. Castiel knew, knew his charge’s sin like one knows the color of the sky. He’d watched as Dean had tortured, those actions now mutilating his own soul, vices gripping him and twisting and breaking.

 

Until Dean was only a shadow.

 

But this was Dean's own blood, and that somehow made it worse. Castiel reached out, two fingers finding Dean’s skin before he could jerk back and the physical pain stopped. A well of numbness rose in Castiel’s body, finding peace for a moment, heaven, nirvana.

 

It all came crashing back down when the inner pain started again, worse than before, rolling blackness crawling its way inside Castiel’s throat. He couldn’t stop the twitch that accompanied it, hand falling to his inner arm.

 

“Why did you do that?” Dean asked, voice fighting to remain calm, but there was something close to panic in his eyes. But Dean never panicked, Dean was the strong one. “I could have handled that.” Castiel took a halting step backwards, trying to categorize the churning emotions invading his body. He felt like cursing the bond, cursing the handprint on Dean’s shoulder that marked him as Castiel’s responsibility.

 

“You were in pain,” Castiel said, his voice somehow managing to retain its assured calm, its deadpan façade. The mask he hid behind was flawless, something Castiel could always be thankful for. He didn’t have to show the world what he was _feeling,_ what he was going through, passing through a storm, being swallowed by the eye and suffocated, smothered. He felt like he should be treading water, but he was drowning, drowning in the storm that was _Dean._

 

“It was just a scratch,” Dean said, softer, pulling back once he reminded himself that the angel didn’t know better, didn’t understand.

 

Castiel gazed at Dean blankly. He rarely understood anything Dean said, when half of it was innuendo and the other half some bizarre language Dean described as ‘sarcasm’. If many humans couldn’t understand it, how was the angel expected to?

 

Castiel wondered if Dean thought him a child, someone who needed to be guided, led in the right direction. With his powers dwindling and the wall between his Grace and Dean’s feelings breaking, Castiel must seem nothing more than a babe, an infant. He was supposed to be a warrior of God, and what about when Dean needed to be led? When Dean needed help?

 

“It is inconsequential,” Castiel said after a moment of silence, shaking his head slightly and moving towards Dean again, now that the man was standing. Castiel waited for the pain to bubble over, for his Grace to recognize the source of its torture and maybe even provide comfort. It was easier, before, when he had sufficient Grace to shield the human from his own feelings, to quell them until they felt disconnected enough to be manageable. First he did it because it was his duty to look after the human, the one he’d raised from the center of sin and damnation. Now, something in him was uncomfortable with the thought of Dean suffering, of Dean feeling anything other than contentment, happiness. Dean told him once that the angel was the best friend he had. Maybe that went both ways, and Dean was his best friend, something Castiel hadn’t thought possible.

 

“You got somethin’ for us?” Dean asked, all business, that swelling, squirming, uncomfortable pain in his chest pushed down. Castiel could taste relief, could taste the air flowing easily through his body as it reacted to Dean’s. Castiel’s nervous system was a mirror of Dean’s, his Grace a mime. He felt what Dean felt. The angel could understand the purpose of this, to alert him when his charge was in danger, but there must be something wrong with it. It must be his fall. That sting on his inner arm was nearly constant now, when it used to only be an annoyance, once every month or so. And that soul-deep, constant burden. Castiel often wondered if it was the burden of Hell, forty years never forgotten, crammed back into a body too young. Stuffed back in a box and begging to be let out. “Cas?” Dean’s voice jarred him from his thoughts, and he realized he looked hesitant, unwilling to divulge the information. He hadn’t come to deliver anything, no message, no mission. Only an attempt to help Dean. But he couldn’t say that.

 

“I have been unable to ascertain God’s position,” Castiel said finally, hand unconsciously moving to his trench coat pocket where he kept Dean’s necklace, a little piece of him. Dean tried not to say ‘I told you so’ as the angel’s shoulders sagged inward, and he looked so tired.

 

“C’mon, you’ve only been lookin’ for a week, gotta keep the faith, man,” Dean said as truthfully as he could, but his eyes were beginning to flick towards the door, waiting for Sam to walk back in, waiting for the arguing to start back up again.

 

“Faith is harder to come by these days, for all of us,” the angel said stoically, watching the hunter’s every twitch, every movement of his eyes towards the door. Castiel’s head tilted to the side and his lips parted slightly, as if he would speak again, a question hovering in his bright blue eyes.

 

“Got somethin’ to ask, Cas?” Dean asked, finally bending down to pick up the knife, fingers wrapping around the hilt with an inhuman familiarity, having known it for long past his lifetime. Lifetimes over lifetimes, tangled through each other, all revolving around the pain, the flow of blood from an open wound, the knife that draws the red to the surface. Castiel wondered if Dean saw the knife as his paintbrush, able to create quivering masterpieces of tattered flesh and broken wings. The steel was still tinged red on the edges, wet from Dean’s blood.

 

“How do people do it?” The angel asked suddenly, eyes snapping up to Dean’s as the hunter stood again, setting the knife down, the only indication he’d ever been hurt at all. “How do _you_ do it?”

 

“Do what?” Dean asked, as if he didn’t already know, as if he didn’t already have his answer stored in the back of his mind, the skeleton in his closet, the little secret he could never expose. No one could know or understand how he coped, how he managed to get out of bed in the morning.

 

“Survive,” Cas explained, eyes almost pleading on his charge as he tried to comprehend the levels of pain overlapping each other. He imagined himself, battling through webbed entities of self-hatred and fear until finding the core, Dean’s core hidden among everything else, and it would be a barren broken soul, still trying to shine, flame stuttering in the wind.

 

“Most of us don’t,” Dean reminded, a sloppy grin masking the ache. “We all die someday.”

 

“I do not believe living is waiting to die,” Cas said softly, eyes finding his shoes and Dean could only be grateful that those soul-piercing eyes were off him. The assurance with which the angel spoke reminded Dean of how he talked about God. This was something he would die believing in, die fighting for. He believed in their cause, in broken little Team Free Will. “How do you find something worth it?”

 

“You don’t,” Dean said bleakly, but drew himself back, eyes misting over. “You just happen upon them, they’re thrust on you, suddenly. You don’t go looking for them, they just fall in your lap and then, you want to protect them, want to make life better for them. You want them to be safe and happy. And seeing them smile is enough to make all the shit you take…it’s enough to make it worth it,” Dean said, staring at the door plainly as if waiting for Sam to walk back in, so that his older brother could throw arms around him and admit that Sam was his inspiration. Sam was his tether to the ground, his binding rope to keep him from sinking too far into the memories of Hell.

 

But fight after fight kept mounting and it was all Dean could do not to scream and throw things like their father used to when they were younger. He wouldn’t be his father. Not when Sam and Castiel looked to him for guidance. He wouldn’t show them the broken, ugly, drunken shadow of his father he’d become. The pale imitation. He couldn’t measure up to the best of him, the best of the warrior John Winchester always was, but the bad, the bad came natural and easy and it wasn’t fair. He’d gotten used to unfair.

 

“Then are you my reason?” Cas asked in confusion, head tilting to the side and eyes flicking over Dean’s form. “I carried you from perdition, out of duty, I was meant to make you safe. No matter how often I fail you, I can trust you. I care for your well being, Dean,” the angel said with growing sincerity.

 

“You don’t gotta, Cas,” Dean reminded, a distant look hovering in his eyes. “Don’t need to.”

 

“If anyone needs to be cared for, it is you, Dean Winchester,” Castiel said clearly, calmly, that everlasting neutrality in his eyes replaced by truth, something Dean rarely saw in angels.

 

“What if I don’t deserve it?” Dean asked before he could stop himself, an occurrence that kept repeating when around the angel. Maybe it was the eyes that could see into his soul, maybe it was his crumbling willpower and need to have someone to rely on.

 

Castiel was silent, looking down as he struggled for the words that would amount to something, mean something deeper than their literal face value. He wanted his words to impact Dean, to make a change inside of him, to eradicate the vile, clawing pain he knew rested there.

 

“Humanity is most loved by my Father, watched with fascination and adoration. He was in awe of what people could do, what they could create, the lengths they would go for the things they cared about. You, you _died_ for your brother, carried the weight of death on your soul from the time you were four. You let yourself be blamed. You survived through the guilt of your father’s death, of every life sacrificed for a cause you fought for. You kept going.” Castiel was speaking distantly, blue eyes locked onto Dean’s green with more emotion than the hunter had ever seen the angel carry. “Your soul shown in Hell brighter than the evil and pain that surrounded you, your soul _burned._ And I can remember the way you screamed when my Grace touched your shoulder, but your soul did not feel that pain. It was laden with the guilt of every slice you made into another soul’s skin. Souls who deserved their judgment.”

 

Dean opened his mouth to argue, but Castiel’s eyes narrowed, willing him to be silent, to be still in the motel room and to listen as the angel spoke divine truth, truth Dean should have heard years before, should have been forced to swallow.

 

“We are bonded, Dean, if anyone should know of what you deserve, I do,” the angel assured, stepping closer again. “I am beginning to understand human emotions,” Dean snorted at that, eyes rolling. “I am beginning to understand _your_ emotions.”

 

“You don’t know-“

 

“Yes I do,” Castiel cut him off, speaking with a finality that ended whatever Dean might have argued. Denial still swam in Dean's green eyes, and Cas felt the beginnings of _frustration_ creeping into his soul, followed by annoyance. Dean didn’t believe him. Within a moment, the falling angel had the hunter pressed against the wall, a hand securely over Dean’s heart, his pale fingers spread against the expanse of warm chest. “I know when you are in pain, I can feel it, I can feel every claw, kick, bite, bruise, and soul-wrenching ache. _I know_.”

 

“But you don’t understand,” Dean finished, eyes bleak as they gazed at the floor, fingers finding the inner elbow of his left arm, pressing into the skin. “No one can understand.”

 

“Because you are afraid,” the angel pushed, stepping back to breathe deeply as if he needed it. It was a comforting motion, one he was sure Jimmy, somewhere inside of him, appreciated. 

 

“Afraid?” Dean echoed, eyes growing dark, haunted with memories of a hell too literal to plague him, too real to have to go through. Because he could _taste_ the tang of blood on his lips, spattered with a mixture of his own and his victims, blurring together until it was only a swarm of knife against skin and pulling, breaking, sawing down and through and open. He wasn’t afraid of anything anymore.

 

“You fear the loss of your own control, you fear that once people see you, they will run,” Cas said, his voice so assured that Dean wondered if he could even argue. He hadn’t known the angel knew him so well.

 

“I cope,” Dean muttered, turning his eyes away, his inner arm itching, aching to override the piling torment on his soul, to eradicate the torture for a few precious, sweet moments. And not every knife had a bad memory.

 

“By changing the pain,” Cas finished, eyes confused and wide. “That is what I do not understand.”

 

Dean didn’t speak, eyes flicking to the knife on the plastic table. His body curled in on itself at the hip, mind assaulted with images, his secret, his little hidden sin. Flashes of steel pushing into skin, blood welling up and spilling over, release that brought on such numbness. It was easier than thinking, then feeling anything but the sting. And that color, sharp red in contrast to tan skin, wiry muscle. That color that brought on calm, something that shouldn’t _be_ in his life. He shouldn’t find bleeding calming, it should make him move faster, fight harder, rush to stop the life slipping away from him. But it was easier said than done, and saying it was impossible.

 

He could never come out and say it, could never just tell Sammy what he did when his little brother left the room, what happened nearly every time he cleaned his knives, felt the blade under his pillow, locked himself in the bathroom. His back would slide against the door until he hit cracked tiles, hands pushing back his shirt sleeve, breathing shallow and labored. His chest would move up and down, up and down, and even to him it sounded weak, like breathing sounds just before you sob, like you’re trying to wall it back but you know you can’t.

 

“Real pain, pain that stings, is easier to understand, easier to manage,” Dean whispered, refusing to look at the angel, his best friend. He thought he’d find judgment, pity, and anger. All things he knew he’d find in Sam, if he ever found out. But he could never find out. “It’s better than that monster inside you  that wants to tear you to pieces.”

 

Cas didn’t know Dean could sound so poetic, words flowing together until the angel thought he was drowning in them. Suffocating under the beauty and the pain and the fear, all wrapped up into what made Dean. You couldn’t have one without the other.

 

“Is existence truly that meaningless? Only pain surrounded by pain?” Castiel asked, thankfully not digging deeper, not picking away at the desperate coward Dean became when he was alone. The hunter looked up, green eyes layer upon layer of agony, for once laid open to the angel, and Cas realized that the pain he was feeling was only a fraction, a mirror reflecting only fragments of a greater picture. Because what Dean felt inside was breaking, shattering, a splitting of his soul down the middle as he tried to tape it together with panicked fingers, but he was never fast enough.  And his soul always spilled out onto the floor, broken and hollow from all the carving.

 

“Sometimes you find a light, but they’re too easily put out,” Dean whispered, eyes misting over with the thought of his mother, father, brother. Sam and him were breaking, it was so clear to Dean it hurt. The older brother couldn’t trust him, the younger ridden with guilt and the fear that Dean wouldn’t have his back. They couldn’t function like that, they couldn’t stay whole. It was only a matter of time before one of them walked out. Dean was starting a count, how many hours it would take before Sam closed the door on him, before it slammed shut and the last glimpse of his younger brother would be the broken, hurt eyes Sam wore so well.

 

Dean couldn’t let himself fall for it, though. Because the world was ending around them and everything was piling on too heavy and his shoulders were going to cave and everything would shatter. Sam let the monster out of the cage, Sam turned his back on Dean in favor of a demon with a silky voice, Sam went off the reservation, too far for Dean to pull him back. And Dean couldn’t keep pretending everything was okay.

 

“Your light wavers too often,” Castiel said plainly, laying out his wounds before him with that same, monotone, detached voice. Castiel wished he could make himself sound passionate, sound real, like he cared. Because he did. But it wouldn’t sync with the _feeling_ he was starting to tap into. His voice made him feel empty, when his chest wasn’t, for the first time in his many long years.

 

“I thought it’d already gone out,” Dean muttered, so low you almost couldn’t hear it, so soft it reminded Cas of all the times Dean hadn’t been a warrior, all the times the angel had only seen a man, a man with a broken spirit.

 

“No,” Cas said, and for once his voice reflected the annoyance and anger he was feeling, burning in his chest like Hellfire. “But it gets closer every time you face the evil and the pain and don’t fight.”

 

“What do you know about how hard I fight? I’m always fighting,” Dean nearly spat, defenses up again in an instant and the angel tried not to be hurt. The angel tried not to let himself be swayed by the enigma that was Dean.

 

“I know you are moving too slow to stop the bleeding,” Castiel said strongly, a challenge in his eyes. Dean wondered if the angel knew the gravity of what he had realized, what the hunter was doing in the dark. Because Sam would know, the instant he caught his older brother in the act.

 

“What does it matter? No one will let me die anyway,” Dean hissed, back turned, eyes on his inner elbow like a gaze alone could cause a wound to reopen. He didn’t think the angel had seen it, scars over scars littering the two inches of flesh he allowed himself to mutilate. It was safely hidden from view, smudged with the remnants of blood no longer spilling.

 

“It matters because _you_ matter,” Cas insisted, turning Dean to face him with rough touches, sparing no amount of energy on the hunter. He wanted to be hurt, Cas could help. The angel’s hand found his brand, his tether to the human that made Dean’s soul mirror into Cas’s grace. He pushed, slamming Dean back into the wall, bringing his vessel’s body close to his. “Why is that so hard for you to understand?”

 

“I know, I know, weight of the world,” Dean spat, head falling back on the wall with a soft thump, eyes closing.

 

“ _That_ is not why you matter,” Castiel pressed, pushing down on the scar with force, drawing a wince from Dean that found its way into Castiel’s deteriorating Grace. “You do not matter because of a lineage you could not control. You matter because of what you choose to do with your life. You have suffered like no other, you have let yourself be shut off from the rest of the world, protecting people from the things they do not understand, keeping people away from your shadowed life. You are a Guardian, a Protector. The incarnation of the angels your people think they know. You are _worth it._ I am falling, Dean, for you, and the reason is not your destiny.”

 

Out of context that would have frightened Dean, it would have made him back up and duck away, because _that_ wasn’t something he could handle feeling. But he knew the angel was talking about the binding of his wings, the slipping away of his Grace, the feeling of air roaring past his skin. Dean wondered why his words seemed to mean so much, weigh so heavily on his heart. Maybe it was because they had been through things together, shit that no one else could understand. Dean remembered every part of Hell; now that he’d been out long enough, it all came back to him. The part where he jerked away from the angelic light Castiel emitted, the way he’d writhed against the constriction of his captor as he rose towards a surface he didn’t deserve to see. He remembered the _months_ it had taken them to reach it, Dean slowly growing submissive, the fight leaving him.

 

But still the angel had faith in him. Still this angel believed him to be worth it, worth the claws into his wings from demons, worth the weakness he felt once they finally broke through, worth every moment of pain the angel was unaccustomed to.

 

Silence could have been touched between them, was solidified into reality as Dean’s breathing slowed and sounded even, as his body went limp and his eyes grew red and watery. Castiel didn’t know what to do, so he held his position, pressing into his human because he _knew_ Dean, could feel the agony pulsing through his body. No part of his body was unfamiliar to Castiel, through the months the angel had dragged Dean's soul out of hell, watching him shift from more demon than human to the broken man he saw today.

 

Tears slipped from Dean’s green eyes, muting their brightness. To the angel, this was worse than feeling his pain. Because Castiel couldn’t do anything, couldn’t stop the flow of hurt tracing its path down Dean’s cheeks. The angel couldn’t do anything but wait it out, his grip changing from bruising to gentle, a soft touch Dean could lean into. But he didn’t. He stayed as strong as he could because it was what Dean did.

 

Castiel, the warrior, the angel, the unfeeling being of light inhabiting Jimmy Novak, had never hugged another living, breathing human being. He’d never come remotely close to offering comfort or condolences, or helping a broken man find peace. He’d never built up the shattered, helped them move past dependency on their own pain to let them know they were alive. He’d never been the support system, the backbone, the one another could fall back on.

 

But Cas, the falling angel who admired a human, Cas wanted to.

 

Arms awkwardly slid around Dean’s shoulders to his back, pulling him flush to his body and standing still, not breathing. Dean’s face was tucked into Cas’ neck, brushing against the collar of his trench coat, Dean’s arms hanging numbly at his sides. Cas’ hand moved, finding its way to Dean’s inner elbow, causing the hunter to flinch, something close to violence reflected in the movement. But Cas held on.

 

His rough fingers pushed back the sleeve, finding white lines overlapping lines, scars that spoke to the angel, scars that meant something he didn’t fully understand. Fingertips brushed over them, a shiver drawn from Dean as he shut his eyes forcefully and turned his face to avoid those blue, soul-searching eyes. Cas pressed down slightly, pressing his skin against Dean’s scar tissue, as if proving to both of them that they were there, a shame Dean never thought he’d carry.

 

Dean broke. Inch by inch, his control slipped as he let tears flow faster, accompanied only by shaky breathing. His left arm shifted outward almost imperceptibly, allowing Cas to see every wound, his other arm moving to wrapping around Cas’s waist. This was a moment that would never be repeated, a scene that could never be replayed.

 

Cas’ hand stayed still, never strayed from its spot, pressing into the skin like an anchor, his other arm wrapped securely around Dean’s back. He could feel wetness collecting on his collar, but he didn’t say anything, didn’t speak at all. Speaking wouldn’t help Dean heal. Cas could feel his Grace reacting to that _pain_ inside of Dean, begging to be released, to be set free on the world. He could feel the breaking pressure on his hunter’s mind, pushing until something split, something broke, and he was left shattered.

 

But Cas wouldn’t acknowledge that, wouldn’t say anything on the matter. He’d only hold onto Dean like he did when raising the body from Hell, when pulling him through clouded darkness towards the light. When Castiel had gripped the soul that would eventually turn him into Cas, when he’d fought his way through the evil and watched Dean change back into himself. When Grace had touched a soul and created a bond. This was like that.

 

The motel room was falling apart around them, a vortex of pain and feeling ripping them from reality for a moment as Dean struggled for healing, struggled to stay above water and he felt like he was drowning in the tears. And Cas could feel when his charge was in pain, bleeding through deteriorating Grace until it made its way into Castiel’s consciousness, gnawing away at him until he understood the hunter. The angel may have feared falling, impacting the earth at record speeds, wings tearing apart in the wind, but he could save another. He could save Dean as he fell from his own Grace, from his own pedestal of warrior, brother, son, good man. Cas could pick up the pieces and put his friend back together. Because Dean Winchester deserved it. Dean Winchester deserved a break from the agony, the ache, the constant biting sting. He deserved a break from the pain he could only escape with a different type of pain. And if all the angel could do was hold on as the hunter let the mask slip, he would do it willingly. He would fly away much later, leaving behind no proof of his presence, and stand in the dark only a mile from the motel, waiting for a sting, waiting for a slice of skin on his arm that never came. He would allow himself a rare smile, a stretch of lips unseen by the hunter, because Dean Winchester was worth it.


End file.
